


Dean

by TFWBT



Series: Advanced Thanatology Sam Comfort [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode: s13e05 Advanced Thanatology, Episode: s13e06 Tombstone, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s13e05 Advanced Thanatology, Post-Episode: s13e06 Tombstone, Season/Series 13, Wincest - Freeform, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 17:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TFWBT/pseuds/TFWBT
Summary: Sam is spun out after the events of Advanced Thanatology. Dean helps him.





	Dean

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series where Castiel, Dean, and Jack all comfort Sam after the events of Advanced Thanatology. Each story in the series features a different pairing. They can be read as part of the same or separate universes depending on personal preferences. The Dean/Sam story takes place after Tombstone.

The knock at the door is so soft, Dean almost doesn’t hear it. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“It’s me,” Sam says.

 

“Come in.” Dean releases the gun under his pillow and shifts to sit up in bed, rubbing his face with a sigh. He’d been trying and failing for two hours to fall asleep. Looks like Sam’s had the same problem.

 

Sam enters the room and closes the door behind him. It’s been so long since they’ve done this that Dean frowns. There's no reason for Sam to close the door. They’re alone in the bunker - Jack’s ‘who the fuck knows where’ and Castiel has gone to find him. Then Sam pads across the room and lifts Dean’s blanket. Dean automatically makes room for him, lying back down and scooting to the side so Sam can slide in next to him. It’s a tight fit on Dean’s bed with Sam’s sasquatch frame and Sam has to squeeze in close. He curls against Dean’s side the same way he’s done for as long as Dean can remember. 

 

Each time, Dean can’t help but marvel at how much he’s grown - how the baby that used to curl tiny fists over Dean’s clothes is now a humongous man with broad shoulders, thick arms, and long legs. Sam’s somehow gigantic and small at the same time. Powerful enough to match Dean in a fight, but still that same clingy little brother that used to sleep in Dean’s bed every night until dad forced them apart. Sam being Sam, it didn't stop him, just made him more secretive about it.

 

Dean closes his eyes, ready to try to fall asleep again. Sam’s fingers find Dean’s bare arm and he pinches hard, the way they used to pinch each other in the backseat of the Impala when dad forbade them from fighting out loud, so they’d sit tight-lipped with narrow eyes, fingers closed on each other’s skin tight enough to leave bruises, both daring the other to cry uncle first. That brat always could pinch hard and Dean forces himself to breath steadily, pretending that he doesn’t feel a thing as Sam’s grip tightens so much it seems Dean's skin will tear. 

 

“You don’t get to die,” Sam says, his breath so bitter with whiskey, Dean feels he could get drunk just breathing it in. “Not unless I say so.”

 

So much has happened these last few days - Castiel returning, cowboys, Jack killing the guard, Jack leaving - that it takes a bit for Dean to recall dying next to Sam in a house full of ghosts. He opens his eyes to stare into the darkness above them.

 

“I wasn't planning on it.” He hadn't thought he would actually stay dead when he jammed the needle into his chest. After all, he never has before. It wasn't until Billie fetched him that death was a possibility; an actual option. And even then, it wasn't a real option; he still has a job to do. Some part of him still thinks that he should've died. Then Sam could finally have what he's always wanted - the girl, the dog, the life he had when he was with Jess and actually happy. 

 

“Asshole,” Sam grunts, but he releases Dean’s arm. He shifts in closer, carelessly throwing a leg over Dean’s, his arm dropping over Dean’s chest. Dean’s only in a t-shirt and boxer briefs and Sam’s just in a t-shirt and pajama pants so when Sam curls against Dean’s body, the warmth of his body radiates off of him. His hard cock presses against Dean’s hip. Once, Sam used to do this after just a few beers, but after the cage, he only slips into Dean’s bed when he's drunk off his ass.

 

“You don't get to die,” Sam says again.

 

It's not what Dean wants to think about, especially since the dark cloud that consumed him on that day is fading. “Oh c’mon, I'm sure you were already thinking ‘bout how you were gonna use my room. Another library?”

 

Sam pinches him so fast and sudden, Dean fucking yelps.

 

“FUCK!” Dean smacks Sam's hand away. “What the hell, Sam?”

 

“You aren't allowed,” Sam says. “Not unless I say so.”

 

Dean snorts. “What do you mean ‘not allowed’? You gonna be a reaper now? It ain't like I got any control.”

 

“You're a fucking idiot.” Sam makes a little sound as if he's trying not to puke. 

 

“You puke in my bed, you're buying me a new one,” Dean warns, although he can't remember the last time Sam threw up; can't remember the last time he's been this drunk.

 

Sam huffs in annoyance beside Dean. “I won't,” he says. The slur to his words is concerning. Definitely sloshed. Definitely unusual for Sam. A shiver crawls through Dean as if he's on a hunt and there's some big clue just out of his reach.

 

How long has it even been since Sam’s crawled in his bed? Well over a year. Dean had expected it after they'd rescued Sam from the Brits, and when Sam hadn't, Dean assumed it was because Mom was living with them. But he hadn't come after Mom left either. He hadn't come after they faced Lucifer or after Castiel took off. 

 

It should’ve been a warning sign. The first time Sam stopped had been when they were teens, back when they didn't touch each other. Dean had thought Sam just got too old to cuddle, but after three years of fully separate beds, Sam ran off to Stanford. Dean had known then that Sam checked out of their family three years before. 

 

After Dean returned from hell, Sam had crawled into Dean’s bed the first night they were alone together in a motel room. Ruby’s question, “So are you two like… together?” had played in Dean’s head as he grew hard and told himself this didn’t count, but Sam hadn’t pressed against him or touched him. He’d just fallen asleep.

 

Dean had told himself it was better that way. He told himself he wouldn’t have to worry about memories of hell leaking out when Sam touched him. He told himself they were getting too old for that shit anyway. He told himself it was a good thing because it was too painful to admit that he was losing Sam the same way he’d lost himself. 

 

That was the last night Sam spent in Dean’s bed that year; not joining him again until after the apocalypse. After that, Sam had climbed in with puppy eyes and apologies and Dean had almost kicked him out. Instead, he let him stay.

 

He couldn't resist then. He can't resist now. 

 

Sam’s warm and quiet. He's close enough that Dean closes his eyes and concentrates on the sound of Sam's steady heartbeat. He breathes in the smell of that ridiculously girly shampoo Sam uses. Herbal Essence or some fruity shit like that. It's stupid, and Sam, and soothing. For the first time that night, Dean starts to fall asleep.

 

Then Sam sharply says, “You aren't allowed to die unless I say so,” with a long exhale of whiskey breath right in Dean’s face. 

 

“Dude, your breath reeks,” Dean says, turning as far away from Sam as he can to get some fresh air. “Did you drink the whole bottle?”

 

“Enough of it.” Sam lifts his hand and drifts his fingers down Dean’s torso, his touch almost ticklish. His hand stops when he reaches the top of Dean’s boxer briefs and he toys with the waistband. Heat pools in Dean’s groin, his mouth suddenly dry. 

 

They don't talk in these moments, but it's been so long, all Dean can think is,  _ Why now? _ They just got Castiel back. Their first win after the universe kicked them hard in the balls, but Sam's not here in celebration, that much is clear. If it was just about what happened in that house, then why wait until now? Is it because of Jack? Sam's never done well with failure. “Losing the kid has you really spun out, huh?”

 

Sam bends slightly, his mouth inches from Dean’s neck, each exhale sending the little hairs on the back of Dean’s neck flying. For one dizzying moment, all Dean can think is  _ “He’s going to kiss me.”  _ It’s a really fucking strange thought. They’ve never kissed. They aren’t gay. 

 

_ Ruby asks, “So are you two like… together?” _

 

Fuck that lying bitch. She’s the last thing he wants to think about now.

 

“It’s not just Jack,” Sam tells Dean’s neck, the stubble of his chin brushing against Dean’s shoulder and sending a thrill down Dean’s spine. God, he needs to get laid. He shouldn’t be this fucking horny just from feeling a warm body pressed against his own. 

 

As if sensing what Dean wants, Sam slips his hand down Dean's boxer briefs, his huge hand encircling Dean's growing cock. His breath is steady on Dean's neck as he starts that perfect slide, his grip and pace just right as if he knows Dean's cock as well as his own. Maybe he does. It's been what? 11 years? since this started. 

 

Then as now, it only seems fair to return the favor, so Dean shifts away enough to slip a hand down Sam's pajama pants. Sam's not wearing underwear and Dean easily takes his fat cock in hand. The tip is slick with precum and he smears it around as he falls into the familiar pattern. He used to jerk Sam the same as himself, but he now knows the differences. Sam likes it slow and steady all the way through.

 

They don't speak; they never do. There's no sound except for skin sliding on skin and quickening breath filling the empty room.

 

Dean shuts his eyes, falling into the pleasure offered by Sam's hand. It's been too long since he's had any hand other than his own on his cock, and his heavy balls pull tight against his body. He tries to hold out, but fuck, it’s just too good, and he grunts as he comes, Sam’s hand milking him dry. Sam pumps him hard well past the point of orgasm- until it's painful, and Dean gasps, but Sam keeps going. Dean shudders and jerks himself free, scooting back from Sam.

 

For the first time ever in 11 years, he turns to face Sam in bed. Sam’s looking at him with unreadable eyes that seem to pierce straight through him. Dean can't tell if Sam's too drunk to notice what he did or if it was on purpose. Sam doesn’t look angry, but he almost never shows his anger anymore. For a moment, Dean’s tempted to shake him, to punch him, to beat him to make Sam express the rage that he knows must be boiling somewhere in there; that only leaks out in small amounts in moments like these. He doesn’t though. Sam won’t hurt him back. He’ll just walk away. That’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? 

 

Sam's not the boy Dean used to know. The one who stood up to dad and chased down his dreams. The Sam who knew what he wanted, what he needed, and demanded it. Who took it when it wasn't given to him. Dean had hated and admired him for it. All this time, Dean's been treating him as that Sam, but somewhere along the line that Sam got lost. He's been carved away piece by piece, or maybe he burned up in Lucifer's cage.

 

And then it clicks into place. The clue Dean's been missing. For the first time, he really looks at that memory of the ghosts in that house. He sees the salt around his body but not Sam's. He sees Sam by his side, thinking he's just lost the last member of his family. Dean has sat by Sam's dead body often enough to guess how he must've felt. Dean keeps dragging Sam down; keeps pulling him back into this life, which isn't what Sam really  _ wants _ and Sam's stupid enough to let him.

 

That Sam hasn't changed. Sam's still that annoying little brother with too much faith and adoration. He's still following Dean around, the same as when he was in diapers and he learned how to crawl up a slide before he could fully walk because that's how Dean got to the top of the playset in Pastor Jim's backyard and Sam couldn't stand to be separated from Dean.

 

“I won't do it again,” Dean tells him. “I won't die without you.”

 

Sam just looks at him as if he wants to believe, but can't.

 

Eleven years ago, Sam would've demanded Dean promise. He would have grabbed him as he did the night when Sam first joined him in bed after Stanford, drunk in that hotel with the dolls and afraid he was becoming something he never wanted.

 

_ Sam’s hands clutch tightly to Dean's clothes, “Promise,” he begs, staring with those big eyes, and Dean never could refuse him when he begs. “Dean, please. You have to promise me.” _

 

Dean reaches out and cups Sam's face the way Sam touched him all those years ago. “I promise. I won't do it again.” And this time, he means it. 

 

Sam leans forward and, for a moment, Dean thinks he's going to kiss him, and his breath hitches in his throat, and his stomach flutters with fear or excitement, which he doesn't know, but instead Sam closes his eyes and presses his head against Dean's chest, right below his chin the way he used to when that's where he fit before he shot up like a weed. Dean runs his hand through Sam's soft hair and down his muscled back the same as before, back when they slept in the same bed every night, when he used to pet Sam to sleep when dad was gone and Sam was terrified that he wouldn't return.

 

_ “What if he doesn't come back, Dean?” _

 

_ “He will, Sammy. He always does.” _

 

Dean's fingers follow the familiar patterns even though it's been decades. He somehow remembers. He always remembers. Even in hell he remembered. 

 

At first, he keeps the strokes familiar, but then he carefully shifts his hand around to stroke up Sam's chest, carding his fingers through the thick patch of hair there. He's never touched Sam as much as Sam touches him. Dad's voice in his head tells him he needs to be the responsible older brother, but he's not doing anything Sam hasn't already done to him. His hand dips lower, heading back down and brushing over Sam's belly button, and Sam's breath hitches in his throat. He curls up, his legs rising, and one slips over Dean's again.

 

Dean knows that sign better than any and he slips his fingers under Sam's pajamas again to grip his hard cock. 

 

Sighing against Dean's chest, Sam thrusts into Dean's hand, his breath coming quicker as he jerks his hips. He fucks Dean's hand harder and faster than usual, his mouth closing on Dean's chest as he loses control. He bites as his comes, teeth sinking into Dean's flesh as come spurts out of him in thick gobs that fall on Dean's shirt on top of the mess already there.

 

Sam pants against Dean's chest as Dean pulls his hand away and wipes it on the last remaining clean patch of his shirt.

 

“I'm sorry,” Sam says, his lips soft against Dean's skin.

 

“You think that hurt me?” Dean runs his fingers over the bite mark. “I'm not even bleeding. You always were a wuss.” He pinches Sam's ear and Sam smacks his hand away. 

 

“Asshole,” Sam says again, or at least that's what Dean thinks he says. He's yawning through it.

 

Dean pushes at Sam to try to wiggle out from under him. Sam doesn't budge. He's dead weight when he's drunk.

 

“Get off me, man,” Dean says as he shoves at him again. “I gotta take this shirt off.”

 

Sam shifts to the side long enough for Dean to peel off his shirt and lay back down. They've never done this shirtless and Dean expects Sam to lay beside him, as usual, but Sam sprawls out over Dean’s chest, his head tucked under Dean's chin like he's 4’6 instead of 6’4. 

 

It's not the most comfortable thing in the world, but Dean lets him stay there, planning to push him back off after he falls asleep. 

 

It doesn't take long. Sam's breaths quickly even out and before long, he's fast asleep. Dean knows from experience he won't wake until morning. They never have nightmares when they're in the same bed.

 

In the morning, they'll pretend this never happened.


End file.
